Tin Foil
by Countess Jackman
Summary: Chills run up and down her arms, travelling to her legs like an electric shock, as he whispers in that tragically broken voice of his. "Jo."


She doesn't know why he's here, but there he is, standing on her front porch, his hands bracing either side of the door. His head is dipped, his shoulders hunched, and raindrops roll off his nose on a suicidal fall towards the cement.

Even though he's not looking at her, she knows something's wrong, that if he picks up his head and looks at her, she'll see the pain, the sadness, and the anger there. Subconsciously, she tightens her grip on the door, skin pulling taut over her knuckles. He's vulnerable, completely and utterly so.

She licks her lips and asks, her voice cracking, "What are you doing here?"

He doesn't respond the way she wants; he answers her with a question of his own. "Can I come in?" His voice is raw and raspy, scratchy like the needle on an album and not at all soothing like it usually is.

Alarm bells sound in her ears as she pulls the door open a little wider. "Sure," she hears herself saying as she moves out of his way.

The toe of his boot catches on the small step separating the porch from the interior of the house and he stumbles forwards, pitching right into her. A gasp escapes her as she wraps her arms around him and tries to stablize them both. It doesn't work; there's too much dead weight. She staggers backwards until her shoulders hit the wall, his weight leaning into her, all but crushing her.

"Dean," she protests, placing her hands on his chest in an attempt to push him away, but he presses his nose into the crook of her neck, his lips hovering just above her collarbone and expelling short, hot pants of air. It isn't until his shoulders start to shake, his chest begins to vibrate, and her entire body is engulfed with numbness that she realises he's crying.

"Dean," she says again, only this time her voice is barely above a whisper and it's gentle, caring, and it only makes his body convulse even more. His arms around her before she knows what's happening and he's holding onto her like she's always dreamed he would - like she's the only thing keeping him on this side of sanity.

Her body is paralyzed - she has no idea what she should do other than return his embrace and perhaps stroke the back of his head just like her mom would do for her. So she does just that, manoeuvring her arms with quite a lot of difficult as they're pinned to her sides, but somehow, somehow she manages and a part of her thinks it possible only because she cares so much for him. She can't see him hurt.

She slips her arms around him, her hands splayed across his back, the exact opposite of his; he's got his fingers twisted up in her tee shirt, holding so tight that she can feel the scrap of his nails through the fabric. But she doesn't say anything. She merely holds him close, her shoulder blades pressing painfully into the wall, a direct foil to the press of her cheek along the crown of his neck.

She's never seen him like this. She's never felt him like this; she can feel every inch of him, from the hard muscles of his arms, which squeeze her like a python does its prey, though his hold is gentler, comfort-seeking, to the plane of his abdominal, which is muscled, but absolutely nothing like a washboard. But mostly, she feels the tremors and the quakes of his body, the sporadic pounding of his heart as he clutches her, whispering wordlessly into the side of her neck.

At one point, he turns his head to that his lips brush the base of her throat. Chills run up and down her arms, travelling to her legs like an electric shock, as he whispers in that tragically broken voice of his. "Jo."

That's all it takes.

Suddenly, it doesn't matter that she's the only one supporting them. It doesn't matter that they fall to the floor in a heap, their limbs tangled in an impossible knot. It doesn't matter that she hits her head and ends up biting her tongue so hard, it draws blood. It doesn't matter that she can feel tears stinging her eyes as she holds onto him with all she's got.

It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter.

When she places her hand on the back of his neck and starts to rub small circles into the soft skin, he lifts his head from its seemingly permanent place in her shoulder and looks at her. His moss green eyes are blood shot, rimmed with red, and filled with unshed tears. She doesn't gasp, she doesn't show any sign of astonishment, especially not when his lips are suddenly devouring hers, the force of the pressure knocking her head into the wall.

At first, she doesn't respond to the kiss, merely lets Dean's mouth cover hers; she lets him kiss her and doesn't push him away because she knows a single push is all it takes to fracture the barely healed breaks. But when he pulls away and leans his forehead against hers, his hot breath playing across her wet lips, she can't help but suck in a gasp of air at the sight of his hooded expression. His eyes are sharp, his brow furrowed, and he's looking at her with such raw want, need, desire that she gives in. She nods her head and grasps his face between her hands and pulls her towards him.

She gives him what he needs because it's what she wants, it's what she needs, and she knows that if she doesn't do this, they'll both regret it.

The kiss is hot and heavy, a lot of fumbling and a bit too much tongue, but eventually they fall into a rhythm, frantic though it is, but they can follow it because they're both exceptionally quick on their feet and even quicker with their lips. His hands start to roam, drifting away from her hair down to her breasts, which are soft and supple in his hands; she's not wearing a bra because she was in her pyjamas when she answered the door and she never wears a bra to sleep. She can feel her nipples hardening against his calloused palms and though she should feel embarrassed, all she feels is a rush of heat between her legs. Her head falls back when he flicks her taut nipple and a cry bursts through her lips the moment his mouth closes over her breast, suckling through the fabric of her shirt. It clings to her nipple, a curious sensation, but no less desirable. But before she can even get her breathing regulated, much less her thoughts in order, he's already moving on, dipping his head lower and lower, and dragging her with him.

Soon, she's sprawled out on the hardwood floor, the cheap rug bunched underneath her back, the frayed knots digging into the back of her skull, but she doesn't feel the pain, only the pleasure. Dean's kissing his way down to her navel, which he showers with an unusual amount of attention, before he hooks his fingers round the waistband of her drawstring pants and gives a tug, pulling them down far enough to expose the rise of her pelvis bone.

However, before he can get too far, before he can dip his head and push aside the sorry excuse for underwear, she grasps the collar of his shirt and pulls him up to her face. She searches his eyes, his expression, for anything. Lightness. Darkness. Desire. But she finds nothing. Nothing but the haunted emptiness of a man who's lost everything, who will lose everything, and doesn't even care.

They stare at each other and she's almost certain that he can see the same expression on her face, because again, he lunges forward and latches his mouth onto hers, taking her lower lip between his teeth and biting down gently. She moans into his mouth as her head spins and he moves over her; she spreads her legs, her knees notched at his hips, and all but comes when she feels his erection through his denim pressing into her thigh. He's hard - and it's all for her.

This is what she wants, she thinks as she tugs his shirt from his waistband with two easy tugs, and with a third, pulling it up and over his head. She tosses it aside, where it lands with a dull, wet thwack against the hardwood. The sound is jarring, but before she can object to their position on the floor, much less run her hands over his flat stomach, Dean is fumbling with his belt, his hands are shaking so badly. Impatience (and desire and fuck, she's just wet. Absolutely soaking) fuel her and she pushes his hands away, making quick work of his belt and then his fly and she reaches a hand into his boxers, wraps her hand around his hard cock and pumps.

He thrusts into her hand one, two, three times before he decides enough is enough, he didn't come here for foreplay. She gets the signal and she pushes his jeans down just a little more until his ass is bare. Lightly, she rakes her fingers over the curve, but before she can get to the juiciest part, he thrusts into her. The thrust is so hard and quick, she arches her back up off the floor, her eyes all but rolling back into her head.

"_Fuck_," is all she's able to groan out before he pulls out almost all of the way before thrusting back in.

Her nails scrambled for purchase, but only find the smooth skin of his waist, her knees locked tight around his hips.

With every movement of his hips, she feels her breath hitching in her throat until it becomes impossible to breathe, yet somehow, she's grunting and groaning and cursing like a fucking sailor every time he hits that glorious spot. She matches his speed thrust for thrust, the only sound aside from her incoherent moaning being the slap of flesh against flash.

It's only when she crosses her ankles and urges him deeper than his cell phone starts vibrating in his back pocket, tickling the tips of her toes, which are already tingling as it is. The sensation is a curious one as it travels up the length of her leg, not entirely unenjoyable. In fact, when it is combined with Dean's steady thrusting, it's downright toe-curling.

Perhaps it's the raw vocal stylings of Bon Scott, but as soon as the chorus of Shoot to Thrill (ironic, to be sure) fills the small hallway where they're sprawled out on the floor, fucking, Dean picks up the pace, snapping his hips abruptly and haphazardly into hers.

The vibrating continues as does the song, breaking into a wicked guitar solo that eventually carries Jo to her climax. She clenches around him, her body all but throbbing and humming with heat. Dean manages to get in a few worthwhile thrusts before he follows her, spilling into her.

He doesn't collapse on top of her, but he doesn't pull out and roll away either. Instead, he props himself up on his elbows and stares down at her flushed face, her dazed eyes. He opens his mouth, but she shakes her head, placing her finger against his lips.

"I think you should answer that," she says because, who knows, it could be Sam or it could be Castiel or maybe it's neither of them, but she doesn't care. She doesn't think she ever will.


End file.
